


The Only Gold in Gray

by LeastExpected_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-02-04
Updated: 2002-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:49:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26281447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeastExpected_Archivist/pseuds/LeastExpected_Archivist
Summary: By LyleSummary:  Dagol has just given up the Ring to Smagol.  Though alive, he pays the price of seeing his friend slowly transformed by it.
Kudos: 1
Collections: Least Expected





	The Only Gold in Gray

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Amy Fortuna, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Least Expected](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Least_Expected), which has been offline since 2002. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on the [Least Expected collection profile](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/leastexpected/profile).

Warmth glowed on his face as he sat in the river bank, midday sun leering at him, burning at his eyes. The ring had grown heavy in his pocket as he sat and whispered to his friend. He paused. Sat silent for a moment, watching the reeds, half-evaporated river-water knotting his hair, wind whipping at the tangled strands and scratching his neck with them. His fingers itched, so he pulled out the Ring and dropped it onto one of them.

Dagol blinked---he found himself staring at an empty cradle in the reeds, hollowed out by his friends body. He sat and watched the reeds and irises erratically switching from side to side -- what had happened? Smagol had disappeared. Stuck that Ring on his finger and was gone. Dagol was determined to watch the spot, in case he reappeared. 

When the place remained empty but for the river and its reeds, Dagol spat in the jerking, swinging stalks, face screwed up with contempt. So, his friend was a trickster. He had done what was necessary to take the Ring, then fled.

He frowned, peevishly staring at the dented riverbank, the crunched reeds. He rubbed at his nose with his fingertips---a thin itching seam ran across it where a reed had struck out and welted the skin. His fingers washed themselves under the shoving pushing darting water, splashing his face, clearing off the last bits of weed, the sweat, the streak of blood.

Shivering, he glanced through the reeds again, anger dissolving into worry. Smagol? Are you there? Silence. A plaintive whimper left his throat before he could stop it. He stumbled forward and pawed through the heavy stalks. Nothing but sharp points sticking on his tunic, grasses shifting around him. No voice answered his calls.

He paused, debating whether or not to go back to his hole. The Ring was gone, the boat far down stream, his friend deserted---nothing left for it. He turned around dejectedly and shuffled back through the grasses, thrusting his tongue reflexively against the top of his mouth---dry, strange, grainy. This was not what he expected when he set off to Gladden Fields for a relaxing afternoon of fishing. That Ring... It must have done something to Smagols mind. 

Now what would he tell his friends father? The full truth just wouldnt work. A ring that put them out of their minds, a tumble in the river bank, and a disappearing hobbit? It sounded like rubbish. He wouldnt believe such a story if it were told to him. No, hed have to think of something more realistic. An argument, perhaps, or just an accidental separation. They could have wandered apart, or Dagol could have drifted up the river in his boat and missed his friend while walking back up the bank. Yes, it could work. 

Of course, the story could fall apart if he was questioned---deceit might be seen underneath the carefully crafted explanation. Other people had always seemed to be able to see through his words like a clear river, lies visible under the current like stones, obvious and heavy with guilt. But it wasnt his fault; the truth would sound more like a lie than the actual lie. How frustrating Smagol was sometimes! He kicked at the weeds in the path, uprooting one and grinding it into the sand angrily. Such a youngster could not be relied upon at all, even for a loyal friend, he concluded.

Leaves skittered on the grasses---or feet? He could not tell. A hobbit following him or a stray cottonwood leaf? He shook his head. Lunch was waiting for him at home. Better not to think about Smagol any more right now or hed work himself into an upset panic. He would drop by his house and ask after him later. And for now---something prosaic like lunch would have a pleasant calming effect on him, he thought.

Watercress. Watercress and fresh cream. Sandwiches. Dagol closed his eyes as his feet carried him down the path. Something dropped decisively onto his shoulder like a large drop of rain. He stiffened. A... finger? He jolted forward suddenly as a hand slid up over his back and joined it, rubbing.

Smagol, no doubt. Yes; no one else would be kissing the back of his neck like that. Small lips had begun probing around just below his ear, tickling him slightly, making him twitch. He whirled around, flailing arms searching for his friend before he could see him. His eyes darted back and forth across the path; he squeaked, dismayed, at the empty spot---sky showed through where he had thought he felt someone standing before. Nothing? How could there be nothing?

He backed away a step. And promptly landed on his backside in the foot-path. Now a small mouth was poking around his face, sniffing, licking, kissing, taking in his ear with inquisitive lips. A familiar voice murmured. Curious, isnt it? We likes this, we does. Yes, my love, very curious. What was Smagol talking about?! He didnt sound like himself.

Dagol ground his teeth together as the wind and invisible fingers stroked over his face. This was confusing and frustrating at the same time. Invisible. Not showing. Nothing when he turned his head around to stare through the reeds, over the path, in front of him. The dirt beneath him ground into his tunic, but he couldnt stand up and brush it off. Something unseen was pinning him there, hipbones settling against his thighs, almost pegging him to the gritty dirt underneath, unseen legs scissoring through his. Empty air. Naught. The fingers were rubbing his hair, stroking his scalp, a voice murmuring to him nonsensically. He couldnt quite make out what it said---too fast, too low, too soft. But it was also soothing, in a way.

Smagol smiled smugly to himself, caressing the Ring as it sat on his finger, strangely warm and vibrating. The hands stroked themselves as they wove through his friends hair, slipping over and over the Ring to make sure it was still there. Yesss, of course it was. The field around him was mist and shadow, smearing his vision. A litany of strange little phrases dropped from his mouth---precious little gold; get that dirt off, yes, dont you sully my pretty thing; shining, yes, you shines and twitches; precious, now they cannot see me, come up behind them and they jumps.

His hands twisted madly through Dagols hair, fingering the damp curls, yanking out little crumbs of seeds that blew from the hissing field around them. All the little voices and seeds flying about in the air, the brown reeds and the green ones unrestful in their beds and twitching. The flowers crawled up their stalks and hung limply as they yawed back and forth. 

Smagol leaned his head back, catching it in wind. The wind was pouring down on him, gently riffling through his pockets, then surging up to rip at his fingers, spitting sharply in his ears. He muttered to himself. Trying to steal my Ring, you are, nassty sneaking wind.

A shudder underneath him pulsed into his hands, wrists, elbows. His friend let out a soft whine---dismayed? The large eyes widened as Dagol struggled to see what didnt look like it was there. Hands reached up to touch Smagols face, miscalculating and landing on his nose and neck, feeling around to settle on his cheeks. They slipped up, down, gentle, rubbing. Palms dropped lower, fingertips groping desperately for his shoulders. Cheeks colored as if feverish and Smagol could see teeth clenching together between the trembling lips.

He sat still and gloried in the feeling: he could see his friend, but his friend could not see him. It made him feel good, almost voyeuristic, watching his friends hands touch only the empty air as they clawed about for his shoulders. His face was strained, eyes wildly desperate as confusion nearly drove him to madness.

Smagol---my love! Take off the Ring.

Why?

I cannot see you to kiss you.

But we can see, love. His tongue flicked out to taste his friends lips. The Ring felt inexcusably heavy on his finger. Blasted thing. He wasnt going to take it off, but it loosened, slipped off, fell---splat against the sand. He drew back and rolled off his friend onto the path. He shivered, a soft hot smell touching at his nose. A trace of steam rose off the small gold band, glimmering and disappearing. His fingers darted out to grab it before he realized they had, depositing it carefully in his pocket. The other hobbit tried watched carefully as it disappeared, but his eyes slid unfocused. 

Dagol blinked up at him. What did you do that for? Why didnt you show yourself?

The hobbits eyes squeezed shut, mind half-perplexed, half-casually accepting. Achh, dont ask poor Smagol. We dont know.

Dagol sighed. No sense in trying to make sense of his friend right now. He stood up, brushing flecks of dirt off of his pants, smoothing them down. A cold wind dashed at his face, nearly freezing his lips where his friend had licked them. When Smagol tipped his head back to look at him, almost accusingly, he extended an arm to help him up.

He muttered as his friend stood, long hand tightly gripping his own. You're impossible, Smagol.

They stood for a moment, staring at each other. Watching from the reeds, one would think they were a pair of innocent hobbit lads, just in an argument and still spiteful. But Smagol had reached into his pocket to hold the Ring again, and Dagols eyes shone with lust, barely concealed as he thought of the Ring in his friends back pocket; he sweated slightly an almost gentle prickling against his face, sweat creeping down his eagerly trembling cheeks and smearing across them when he went to rub it off. That firm icy gold, he thought, poised in time, waiting half-buried in the river-bed to be found by himself; bright sweet Ring: irresistible. He ambled forward and leaned up against Smagol, running his hands down toward that pocket, rubbing at the small of his back.

He distracted the other hobbit with his mouth against the tense neck---sucking intently, kissing, massaging. Could feel the pulse thumping waspishly, muffled, like something sinister beating about, trying to get out of Smagols throat. Agog, he licked at it, felt the way it pressed and bumped against his tongue---hot and rhythmic. His head swung back around to face the other hobbit---an adversary? Such a twisted parody of love. But despite that, he kissed him, gorging himself on his eager mouth. The lips, he thought to himself, were quite succulent. Small and folding around his own with such surety, sweet---tasting of honeysuckle, cold with the wind on them. Would the Ring feel sweet and cold like that in his hand? He was sure it would.

His arms coiled around his friend: sudden, like a snake striking, but not to strangle. He could get the Ring in a more devious way. His hands dropped lower, rooting around as if simply feeling the flesh gently through the breeches. He could feel the other body shifting against his chest and shivering, pushing closer---as if trying to suck off the heat that had begun to seep into his veins. Smagol was carelessly moving the Ring closer to him, exciting him, making him hunger for it. Hed found it; it belonged to him! Creeping hands dug in Smagols pocket desperately, without a snap or jolt of warning. The wind behind him reached out unseen fingers to choke a tree branch; it snicked the limb off at its joint to loll weakly against the tree. Moments later, the branch hit ground with a dull whump.

Smagol had jerked away in a fraction of a second. Dagol gasped, breath quickening a step when his friend snarled as though stuck, reeling back towards him. The other hobbits bared teeth bilked his hopes of cunning robbery. He glanced behind, nerves jarred---the silver water was barely in sight, but his hole was still a ways off. Dagol ducked his head, afraid, seeds on the wind spattering on the back of his neck. Was his friend going to kill him? He was not quick-footed enough to outrun him. But Smagols nose wrinkled and he struck him with the back of his hand across the cheek, then turning to dash off.

Dagol spread his hand over his face---he wiped at the spot, rubbing, wincing. A silence beat around his ears, strange, pregnant with doubt. Would Smagol despise him now? Would he refuse to speak with him? Would he be right to do so? Still heat hunched in his throat, knotted, sat, as if the doubt had coalesced. His shoulders sagged as he watched his friend leave, then stood dejectedly and made his way towards his own hobbit-hole.

Smagol sprinted down the path, trampled stalks sticking to his bare webbed feet and dragging along with him. He grimaced as a slender twig twisted his toes apart. Such speed was unnatural for a hobbit, he knew, and he was unused to it, but he had to clear himself of the hands that had tried to steal his Ring from him. Jealous little sneak.

His cat-like eyes shone, the wind darting at them. It had tried to blind him, but when he glared, it dropped submissive to his feet and stayed for some moments. Too odd for coincidence? He didnt know.

The wind continued to whine and to whimper through the reeds. His hair was jagged with water and those decisive gusts, curls poking out at odd angles, swiping about in the wind. He darted through a copse of trees, ducking the branches as they tried to swipe at him. He was too quick for them, of course, he thought to himself. Too quick.

The Ring felt strange in his pocket, almost as though it were a separate entity. Heavy and burdensome, like a ring shouldnt be. He would take it home. Put it under his pillow, yes, where it would be safe.

He was panting heavily by the time he got back to his hole. The door had been left open just a crack, but the wind blew it gaping wide. Nobody noticed as he slipped in, the door snicking closed carefully behind him. Perhaps they were out boating, or gathering reeds. He padded through the hall and unlatched the door to his room---silent and deft, as always. 

The room was a small and cozy one, with smooth stones, bottles of wet shells, and other oddments decorating his bed-side table. The bed sat against the wall, warm and fat, ready to engulf him and drag his mind down into sleep and dreams. He laid the precious object on the sheet and threw a pillow over it, concealing its tempting shine. He lay back on the bed and stared blankly at the opposite wall.

He hid his fingers from himself, for they had been haunting him for some time now. The vile strangling things had nearly done in his best friend, his love, his companion. It wasnt that he had anything against Dagol. He loved him, of course. Always had. But he had thought in those few moments that there was only one way to do things---and he had to get the Ring. It frightened him nearly as much as it fascinated him; it seemed to have the power to pull him to it, to make him irrational.

A soft ache and a gurgle in his stomach brought his attention away from the Ring. He remembered they had not caught any fish that afternoon. He got up, shuffled through the silent house. The whole place seemed to hold still as the wind surged around it, as a thing that lurks in a river bank and waits for danger to pass by it, crouching and shivering. 

The pantry door clicked open softly and he drew a small tray of smoked fish off of a shelf. Sharp little teeth dug into the salty morsel, ripping the meat off the stringy bones. Tough and chewy, but with a tart edge to it he craved. The down side, of course, was that it made him quite thirsty. He snaked through the empty house, aiming for the wine cellar. Snchhh---the door scratched and clung to its frame, but gave in.

The slow-moving cool air of the cellar reached into his nostrils, sending a shivery sensation to his head. It smelled of dust and sweet alcohol in the underground storage room. Comfortable, snug, darkness rushing to meet him and smile in his face. The wine bottles glinted at him from shelves, so he arbitrarily snatched the one closest to the door. 

Bottle in hand, he ambled back up the steps. He heard the front door snap open and he stopped, stiffening, listening to the feet of someone as they came into the room from outside. They shuffled about, accompanied by a clatter of pots and pans and a bright whistled melody that counteracted the spluttering of the wind.

Moments later, he heard a sharp cracking knock and the swooping noise of the wind. The door let in the loud hissing drafts, along with, he assumed, another hobbit, though he couldnt hear the footsteps. He could hear two voices conversing, one querulous, one stern. Standing slowly, he made his way into the hall, Ring almost unconsciously dropped onto his finger.

Dagol shuffled his feet and ducked his head, not wanting to tell Smagols father what had happened. He glanced into several rooms leading off of the the kitchen, but couldnt see his friend. Has Smagol come home? Recently, I mean.

No, he hasnt been home for hours... His father looked confused for a moment, then the look went away, his river-gray eyes intently on the wall. Why? Has something happened? 

I---uhh, lost him on the path back.

Oh? And did you go searching for him? His voice was wary, but less concerned than Dagol had thought it would be. That left him feeling flustered and confused, not quite sure what he should say.

Yes. Dagol gulped. I looked as carefully as I could, but he wasnt answering.

The older hobbit looked up, as though suddenly thinking of something. I trusted you to be more responsible. You ought to have kept an eye on him. His voice was vague, his eyes focused on Dagols shoulder.

Msorry, he mumbled. He just slips through my fingers like sand sometimes. He lowered his eyes.

Well, the fields arent very far away from here. Perhaps he has wandered off to follow another of his whims, or perhaps he is just swimming. The father looked thoughtful, his furry little eyebrows gone tense. He smiled a perfunctory smile. He knows the way back. I wouldnt worry about it if I were you. It could very well be true; no light flickered from under his sons door-crack, but he was almost sure he could hear a gentle breathing, as of sleep. The door was latched, though, so he couldnt check to make sure. It had bothered him somewhat, but Smagol had grown angry and insisted when his father told him not to latch his door and close the family out. He never enjoyed the company of his mother and siblings, who were always bursting in, he had said. The older hobbit sighed.

Smagol, who had been watching listlessly, grew bored and sat down with his back against the paneling. He couldnt hear all of what was being said, and it didnt matter, really. He was waiting for Dagol to leave---sneaky friend would try to take his ring if he went out there now. Impatient thoughts poked through his mind---Now? No. Fathers in the kitchen singing softly, that light fluttery tune. Saws through our mind, doesnt it? And it sounded so pretty last night. Strange, how the mind changes, so abrupt, are we shuddering?

He turned, shifted against the floor of the hall. The Ring gleamed on his finger and he held it up to his face. It smiled at him---an almost leer that made him both uncomfortable and delightfully shivery. Precious little thing, but why do you watch? You... never seems to close your eyeses. Eyeses, yes. You prods through our mind and you made us think tricksy things.

Among the queer shadows, it seemed the brightest and most precious thing he had ever held, curling around his finger sweetly. The only gold in gray. Through the graying hallway, he could still hear his father humming; his ears tried to close in on themselves to cover up the gentle little melody, for it was eerily loathsome to him.

He lolled his head against the paneling. The shadows felt heavy on his mind, seeming to grow languid and slow-moving, lulling him. Boredom weighed on his chest. He was beginning to grow sleepy---slowly sinking towards the floor, half-lidded eyes struggling to stay open.

He let himself fall asleep in the hallway, somnolence pulling apart his thought and caressing his forehead, dragging him under heavy water like a pouring river. He had tried to plan... something... for tomorrow, but forgotten it. Pretty whirling shadow world. He closed his eyes and smirked to himself.

The following morning, his father would trip over an invisible leg in the hall and shake his head, perplexed, thinking he'd tripped on a hitch in the carpet.


End file.
